It Is Not Good to See It Rain
by Faelinn
Summary: Chase only knows one way to make himself feel better, but how long can he hide the injuries he inflicts on his own body? Please note that this fic deals with a touchy subject, so read with care. HouseChase.


A/N : Well, the other House story I'm writing is not going well, so I started writing this fic 'cause I was bored. Apparently, I have to write some sort of suicide/self-injury fic for pretty much every fandom I write in...Weird, right? But, anywho, I came up with this idea when I was watching the episode 'Control,' so I can blame it on whoever wrote that episode. This is probably as OOC as can be, and the writing in it is kind of shaky/weird, but I don't care. It's been too long since I posted anything:(

The title was taken from a letter written by E.E. Cummings at age 6.

There was blood pooling around his ankle, little mini-lakes of his own life encircling his legs, and, though the long cuts running up and down his leg hurt, he was too entranced by the color of himself to notice. For long seconds, stretching into seeming eternity, he stared and stared, caught up in a view of his own death, his own unavoidable end.

Then, blinking slowly, he took out his first aid kit, carefully laying out his supplies in a neat line on the clean white towel he had already laid out. First went the needle and thread, already ready for stitching, then the now slim roll of gauze with its careful square patterns of thread, next the little alcohol pads to clean away any germs that might be clinging to his cut skin, and finally he placed down the medical tape he would use to hold the gauze in place.

For a few more moments, he stared at his neat little line of supplies, waiting so patiently to save him from his own injury, and Chase briefly wondered if it was worth the trouble. But his fingers were moving within a second, carefully moving across the surface of the long slices of broken flesh criss-crossing his leg as he examined the stinging wounds.

"No stitches today," he whispered softly, pulling his hand away and using the towel before him to wipe away the dark red smears that stained his fingertips.

Under his naked skin, the tile floor was uncomfortably cold, and he shifted slightly, trying to warm himself as quickly began to clean out the cuts. The first brush of alcohol against the cut burned like a small forest fire running up through his leg, but he merely bit his lip, forcing himself to endure as he always did. The pain was actually almost comforting.

As he began to tape down the delicate swathes of gauze, he glanced around the cold, sterile bathroom, checking the pristine, white expanse for any accidental drops of blood that might have escaped his attention, but the entirety of the small space was impeccably clean. If not for the reddened hand towels that now lay crumpled and discarded in the sink and the used medical supplies that were scattered across the white towel on the tile floor, there would be no evidence of any injury at all.

With a slightly shaking hand, he reached out for the first aid kit, beginning to pack in the missing supplies into their customary places with practiced ease. After finishing, he checked the gauze on his leg and stood carefully and slowly, making sure to put minimal pressure on his injured leg. It didn't take him long to place the first aid kit back in one of the dark oak cabinets lining the sides of his bathroom, and, after placing the still clean towel on one of the racks lining the bathtub, he quickly began to wring out the blood from the stained hand towels.

His attention stayed inexorably focused on the watery blood he forced out of the cloth, watching it slowly drip into the sink and wash away, disappearing and leaving no trace. Soon, only a few faint discolorations marked the blood's presence, and Chase mentally noted that he would probably have to bleach the wash cloths some time tomorrow.

He placed them out to dry on towel rack and slowly limped out of the bathroom and into his room, pulling open his dresser drawers and glancing through them until he found a pair of pajama pants, which he quickly pulled on, effectively hiding the large swathes of gauze that bandaged his legs.

It didn't take him long to curl up in his bed, and, when he closed his eyes, it only took him a few seconds to fall into a restful sleep.

The morning light leaked into the room from the tightly-shuttered blinds, forcing its way past Chase's eyelids and sending a message of wakefulness to his mind. Murmuring softly, he let his eyes open into half-awake slits that peered distrustfully out at the empty room. Silence stretched out through the air, and, on his corner table, his alarm proclaimed in benign red numbers that it wasn't yet time for the day to begin.

Yet, he found his body mechanically sitting up, and his eyes opening all the way to face the world. A soft sigh escaped his lungs, and it echoed in the silence of the room like a tourist's shout in a dark, underground cavern.

Carefully pulling up the leg of his pajama pants, he exposed the blood-stained patchwork of bandages that covered his skin, and he cautiously prodded a few of the more sensitive areas, wincing at the sharp sting. The cut closest to his foot, stretching across the sharp bone of his ankle, felt hot to the touch, and the painful warmth emanated a feeling like burning paper against his fingers, almost as if it was covered in crinkly flakes of ashes that whirred through the tender nerves of his hand.

It didn't bother him, and he stood, carefully testing out his injured leg and almost reveling in the sharp stretch of torn flesh that greeted his every movement. After closing the blinds and pulling the curtains shut to block out any remnants of sunshine that managed to sneak through, he briskly walked toward the bathroom, effectively forcing his body to accustom itself to the new weakness in his leg. When he passed the light switch, he didn't turn it on.

The dark was company enough.

Turning the shower on was easy and watching the steam begin to pour out was almost comforting, but taking off the bandages hurt, and Chase had to close his eyes and bite back the tears. Little flakes of dried blood fluttered to the floor as he peeled back the soaked gauze, and the young doctor cursed softly. He'd have to sweep again before heading in to work.

Chase really hated sweeping.

Before he could think anymore, he was in the shower, and the scalding water was beating down across his torn flesh, washing away the dried stains of blood that covered his leg. The blood trickled down the drain just like it always did, colored pink like soft-colored roses after the water had diluted it into a weaker, less potent fluid.

Chase scrubbed at the cuts until they bled fresh, dark blood again, and, when his whole body was flushed from the heat and the intensive cleaning, he turned the water to ice-cold, letting it drench him in a freezing waterfall. The sharp temperature change made his whole body tingle with a pins-and-needles feeling, and he smiled against the water, letting it run across his face in brisk, chilled streams.

The thought of a new day didn't bother him anymore.

No one was in the diagnostics conference room when he arrived, and the silence that greeted him was welcoming and comforting. A crossword puzzle had been left on the table, and Chase stared at it for a few seconds from the doorway, wondering if he had any answers, not necessarily for the crossword, but for anything. It seemed unlikely, but he pulled up a chair, sitting down and stretching out his leg as he examined the puzzle.

He read over the clues as he picked up a pencil from the table, thoughtfully chewing on its end as he stared at the blank spaces left for his answers. No words came to mind, no solutions surfaced, and he remained sitting, silent and alone. To make matters worse, the cuts on his leg were starting to itch, and Chase had to fight the terrible urge to tear off the fresh bandages and scratch the wounds until they were ragged and bloody.

He dropped his hands from the table, letting them fall on his lap and forcefully holding his whole body still. The cool air of the hospital wafted around him, and he took slow, calming breaths as he forced ignore the screeching complaints of his body. When footsteps echoed behind him, they barely registered in his distracted mind, all of his attention focused on his own physical state of being.

"It's masturbation," a voice announced brightly.

Chase spun around on his chair and stared at House, who was standing right behind him with a bizarre grin on his face that reminded Chase of some sort of demonic imp. All in all, this was turning out to be a rather disturbing way to start a day.

"What!" Chase sputtered, trying to understand the point of the other man's remark.

"The answer is masturbation. Oh, and that one's bestiality."

"Huh?"

House pointed, and Chase unwilling glanced in the direction he was pointing. The only item in sight was the innocuous-looking crossword that was still lying atop the table, and Chase peered at it closely, hastily reading through the clues.

"And three down is fellatio. You should_ definitely _know that one," House added helpfully.

Chase stared at the clue, unbelieving, as he read the words, 'oral stimulation to a man's penis.' That was definitely fellatio, but what was it doing in the crossword? He had always assumed that crosswords had to be child-safe, but this one looked like it belonged in one of those bookstores that catered only to adults.

"What sort of crossword is this?" Chase asked in baffled confusion.

"The best kind! All about sex and stuff, and I got it just for you. Have to make sure you know this stuff. It's a very important part of your education,"House answered gleefully.

"You're sick."

"Ooh, and when Cameron gets here, maybe you two could work on it together," House continued.

"She wouldn't get any right," Chase snapped.

Chase was shocked when House grinned and pretended to applaud him, miming clapping as Chase watched with amusement. Apparently, sex jokes about Cameron were always good to tell around House, Chase realized with a wicked grin.

"Wouldn't get what right?" Cameron asked as she stepped through the doorway, obviously having overheard part of the conversation as she walked down the hallway.

"Nothing," House and Chase chorused at once, both glancing up in half-guilty surprise at her abrupt entrance.

House snatched the crossword off the table, and Chase smothered a laugh as the older man crumpled it up and stuffed it in his pocket. As Chase glanced at Cameron again with his eyelashes fluttering down and shading his eyes, he could see her frowning suspiciously, and her lips formed a puckered moue of displeasure.

With the memory of the shared amused and Cameron's irritation, Chase could ignore the itching of his leg, and he hid a smile as he stood up to prepare a pot of boiling water.

It was dark outside of the hospital, and the darkness almost seemed to have a form in the deepest shadows. Chase could imagine a corrugated, harsh, metallic sort of monster that lurked in asphalt and oil spills, feeding off the pollution and corruption of city streets and city-born hearts. In his head, the monster had a name, but the name stayed there in silence locked.

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back, and all of his weight fell against the hospital wall behind him. An aching tiredness lingered behind his eyes, and little whispers of future headaches moaned through his mind. Tomorrow, he knew his whole body would ache with the pain of weariness, but, for now, he relaxed and enjoyed the lightness of the evening air. The unusual lack of oppressive weight in the air made him think of home, and, with his eyes closed, he could see the beauty of Australia stretched out before him. Even the harsh smell of exhaust fumes and the cold, strictly clean smell of the hospital seemed to fade away for a few moments.

Behind him, the door opened, and the harsh sound startled him from his memories. His eyes sprang open and immediately latched onto House as he stepped into the nighttime air. The older doctor looked wide-awake and alert, his animation directly contrasting Chase's own lethargic weakness, and, as House stepped away from the doorway, his cane made sharp, clacking noises on the pavement. His eyes skimmed past Chase, obviously noting the tired Australian's presence, and then they traveled on to the sights beyond the young doctor. Coughing softly, House took another step, and he continued to walk until he had completely passed Chase and headed out of sight.

He hadn't acknowledged Chase in any way, and, for the first time all day, the young intensivist felt invisible. Dropping into a crouch, he stared at the ground and slowly let one hand rest against his leg. Under the fabric of his pants, he could feel the cuts stinging.

A/N: I love feedback. All feedback, any feedback, just please tell me what you think!


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